


The Price We Paid

by Anonymous



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Blind Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Ishval, Scar finds himself inextricably drawn to a man he once called his enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price We Paid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Floranna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floranna/gifts).



Scar would never forgive Roy Mustang for the atrocities he committed, but he thought that he understood him, seeing the untamed rage in his eyes as he faced down Envy. 

Scar didn’t want to admit it, but some part of him couldn’t help but think, _we are alike._

*

The thought came again when he saw Roy Mustang months later, sitting in a side street in Ishval, explaining the basics of alchemy to a group of curious children. He pressed his hands together, creating tricks and toys. But as Scar passed by, he looked up, and his eyes were empty. 

Scar glanced back once before turning the corner, and the children were gone. Roy Mustang was drawing circles in the dirt, wobbling and uncertain , and Scar almost pitied him.

*

“What?” Mustang said, recoiling in shock. “How are you—“

“There’s no time for this now ,” Scar said, dragging him forward. There’d been an accident on one of the construction sites, multiple buildings collapsed in a row. They needed to get them stabilized, fast, and Scar didn’t trust the state alchemists the military had stationed here. The collapse seemed too unlikely, to have so much go wrong at once.

Mustang stumbled as Scar pulled him along in his haste, and he grudgingly slowed his pace. It wouldn’t do to have him injured as well. As they neared the building, Scar spotted a youth idling off to the side.

“You,” he said, and the boy looked up, eyes widening when he realized who he was talking to. “Do whatever this man says to help him stabilize the building.”

He left Mustang there. If he couldn’t figure out what to do, he wasn’t much use anyway. Scar felt no need to coddle the man. 

When Scar returned from the other side of the site hours later, he found Mustang sitting against the wall of the now alchemically stabilized building, eyes shut and head tipped back. Scar watched him sit there, face blackened by the construction dirt, hair lank with sweat. He thought of going over, saying something. 

But he turned away and headed back into town.

*

Scar shot a look of disgust at the brothel and bar, soldiers staggering out stinking of beer and perfume. It had been one of the first establishments in the newly rebuilt Ishval. He hated it, but he was forced concede it was a necessary evil. Better the soldiers congregate here than disturb his people. 

A flash of light caught his eye, and a cry of pain, followed by more shouts. He ran towards the disturbance, and was confronted by Mustang, hands pressed together in clear warning, with his back pressed against an alley wall. 

“So you’re the Hero of Ishval, huh?” one of the men slurred, forcefully pulling Mustang’s hands apart and slamming them against the wall. “Not so great now, are you? Just a cripple, taking scraps from these Ishvalan dogs."

Mustang didn’t say anything, and Scar thought he’d seen enough.

“Leave,” he said. He could see there were three men, one clutching a bleeding arm. 

“What are you going to do about it, Ishvalan?” The man holding Mustang sneered at him. Scar noticed he’d loosened his grip, distracted by Scar’s approach. Clearly Mustang had too; he suddenly dropped out of the man’s grasp, clapping and slamming his hands onto the ground. There was another flare of light as earth haphazardly shoved the man away. He hit the other wall hard, shaking his head in pain.

“Fuck this, it’s not worth it,” he said, shrugging off the help of the uninjured soldier. 

“Have fun with your Ishvalan buddy, Mustang!” the soldier called back. “I’m sure he’d be happy to trade old war stories!”

Scar ignored the soldiers, walking over to where Mustang was still slumped against the wall. 

“Are you injured?” he said, kneeling next to him. Much to his surprise, Mustang laughed, lifting his head and grinning.

“I’m blind,” he said with a lazy grin. “If you hadn’t noticed.” His breath stank of alcohol, and Scar almost recoiled in disgust.

“I’ll assume you’re fine then,” Scar said, getting to his feet in disgust. He considered just leaving Mustang to his fate, but whatever Mustang had done in his past, somehow Scar doubted Ishvala would condone leaving a drunk blind man in an alley .

He reached down and grabbed Mustang’s arm, tugging him to his feet, adjusting his grip and putting an arm around his waist. Luckily he wasn’t a large man, and lighter than Scar had expected. Lighter than a solider should be; he’d almost certainly lost weight.

He walked forward out of the alley, and Mustang stumbled along next time him, pressing closer to Scar and leaning his head against Scar’s shoulder.

“So, Scar,” Mustang drawled as they turned the corner down a deserted side street, “why were you at the brothel tonight?”

Scar ignored him, dragging him around another corner.

“I didn’t think warrior monks went for that,” Mustang continued, “but I guess everyone gets lonely. And you’re still lonely, didn’t find a single pretty girl tonight.” He laughed. “Just me.”

Mustang rubbed his cheek against Scar’s chest as he was dragged along, and Scar did his best to ignore his antics.  
“But I’m still pretty, aren’t I?” he continued, leaning closer to Scar, reaching out a hand to trail up his chest. “And some people like this kind of thing. Having someone to fuck that can’t see them, that’s completely at their mercy.”

Scar abruptly came to a halt, briefly shocked by Mustang’s words. Mustang continued to run a hand up his chest and tilted his head back, exposing his neck as he licked his lips. Scar shoved him away, and he stumbled against the wall of a ruined house.

“Are you going to kill me now?” Mustang said it like he didn’t particularly care either way. 

Scar looked at him, at the pale skin marred by bruises, at dark hair falling messily over eyes that were flat and grey. 

“Kill me, fuck me, doesn’t really matter. You can do what you want.” Mustang laughed then, a wet, broken sound. “It’s equivalent exchange .”

Scar had enough. He shoved Mustang against the wall. Mustang just leaned against it, boneless and weary in Scar’s grasp.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Mustang said. He lifted his hand, reaching slowly forward to place it on Scar’s chest. “I’m tired of being alone.” 

His hand clenched in the fabric of Scar’s shirt, not pulling him forward or letting him go as he took a deep, shuddering breath. The seconds dragged on as they stood there, on the precipice of something Scar didn’t dare voice. Finally, Mustang let his arm drop limply to his side. “I’m just—so tired.”

Scar stepped away, shaking his head to clear it. Mustang stayed where he was, back against the wall.

“Nothing you can do will make up for what you did,” Scar said.

Mustang turned his head away. Scar’s eyes fixed on his neck, painted white in the moonlight.

“I know,” Mustang said. Then he laughed again. It sounded even worse than before. “That’s what he told me.”

“Who?” Scar asked.

“The last man I killed in Ishval,” Mustang said, crazed smile crossing his face. “He said, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’ I still dream about him.”

Mustang fell silent, tipping his head back to rest on the cold stone behind him.

“I will never stop dreaming about it,” Scar said.

“Of course not,” Mustang said, voice gone quiet. “How could you?”

He looked sightlessly up at the moon.

“Kimblee said something once, in Ishval. It was—so long ago, but I still remember it. ‘Don’t forget the people you kill. Because they’ll never forget you.’ ” Mustang turned his head back towards Scar, staring past him. “He was a psychopath, but sometimes I think he knew better than all of us.”

“You need to get to bed.” Kimblee and his ideas were best left dead and rotting. Scar pulled Mustang to his feet, dragging him along.

Mustang didn’t say anything the rest of the way back to the house he was staying in, a simple two room affair. When they finally reached the door, Scar left him, turned to go, but before he could, Mustang grabbed his arm.

“Why did you help me?” he said. When Scar didn’t answer, he pressed on. “I know that we were allies in the end, but allies of convenience, nothing more. Why were you there tonight?”

“You’re not my enemy anymore,” Scar said. He left Mustang standing in the door, and wondered if what he said was true .

*

The next time Scar saw Mustang, it was under the sweltering noonday sun. He was sitting outside again, at a table where people were bringing him broken items. He’d speak with each person quietly, have them describe the object and what it did as best they could, then run his hands along it, feeling the shape and texture. A clap, an alchemical flare, and the object was fixed.

Scar had been planning on walking past, ignoring Mustang like he had for the first few months they’d both been in Ishval. Yet, as there was a lull in the crowd, he found himself drawn over to the table. 

Mustang must have heard his footsteps, because he turned his head towards Scar and smiled at his approach. Scar thought the smile looked strange on him, covering anything of the commanding soldier, the future Fuhrer, that might have been left.

“How can I help you?” he said.

Scar found he didn’t have anything to say, now. Didn’t know what to say to this man, this murderer, anymore. All the accusations had been aired, the grievances buried, though not forgotten. What did they, two men who had been enemies, have now ?

_We have both lost something—precious._

Not just a person, not just people (though yes, a people, always and forever, never forgotten), but a dream. Revenge. Atonement. They weren’t so different, were they? A vain attempt to suture a wound that will never stop bleeding, to forgive something that can never be forgiven. To choke back the atrocities and somehow, through all of it, stumble forward on broken legs and create something like a new life .

“Why are you here?” Scar heard himself say.

“Scar?” Mustang said. Scar didn’t answer; Mustang knew it was him.

“I—“ He tugged at his fingers, a habit Scar assumed came from wearing gloves, a habit he had clearly not yet forgotten, though his hands were exposed, chapped and rough from the dry desert air.

Mustang took a deep breath, and sat up straighter on his stool, entirely losing the air of benevolent kindness he’d had before . “I must apologize for my behavior the other night. It was completely inappropriate, and I want to thank you for helping me.”

“It’s nothing.” He didn’t want this man’s gratitude, and didn’t care for an explanation of his bizarre behavior. “Answer my question.” 

“It has always been my goal,” Mustang said, resting his hands on the table and standing, “to help in the reconstruction of Isvhal. If I cannot do that as a solider, I will do it as alchemist, as best I can.”

“How does fixing broken trinkets help Ishval?” 

Mustang sat back down then, looking defeated, and Scar felt even as Mustang seemed to concede, he’d lost something, struck a cruel blow.

But he should have known better than to think a man like Mustang defeated. He ran his hand across a book that Scar had only just noticed sitting on the table. The cover had what looked like Xingese characters printed on it. Then he looked up again, and even if his eyes could no longer meet Scar’s, the fire that had defined him had not yet died.

“I plan on mastering alkahestry. There are no trained doctors among the remaining Ishvalans, and few doctors wish to come here, for little pay and a harsh environment. I will do everything I can, learn everything I can, to see that the remnants of the Ishvalan people do not die needlessly from sickness or injury.”

“So the killer becomes a healer,” Scar said.

“Yes,” Mustang said, wry smile crossing his face. “Funny, isn’t it? But it’s what I can do now, and I mean to do it.”

“How are you studying?” Scar asked. “You can’t read.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mustang said dryly. “I’ve been recruiting anyone with time to read it to me, having them describe the diagrams. It’s in Amestrian, a translation sent by Miss Chang, but sometimes the volunteers are a bit, well, young to understand the harder words and concepts. But I’m making do. I’ll do whatever is necessary, to succeed in my goal, no matter how difficult.”

A man who had aspired to be Fuhrer, now reduced to this. And yet, was he as pitiable as he seemed? He was not reduced, even though he clearly struggled. Scar knew, better than most, what it took to lose your entire life, and to continue to stand tall. He had seen this man face the choice he himself had, to struggle, and in the end, to let the fires of hatred die. They were both past that now.

“I’ll read it,” Scar said, surprised at his own declaration. “I’ve read my brother’s notes, and talked to Mei. I have some understanding of the concepts behind alkahestry.”

Mustang blinked in surprise. “Thank you. That would be helpful.” 

Scar sat on a stool next to Mustang, took the book, and began to read. The words flowed like water, and Scar felt a calm wash over him, as if the words themselves held the healing properties they taught. Mustang’s face was solemn as he listened, head tilted in the direction of Scar’s voice. Scar turned a page, read on, barely noticing as Mustang shifted imperceptibly closer, angling his body towards Scar. Everything about it felt too close, too personal, too intimate, but as if commanded by Ishvala, Scar read on.

Finally, the market street began to fill again. He had barely noticed the passage of time, but now he saw the lengthening shadows of the buildings, as the afternoon marched on. He finished the page, closing the book, setting it on the table and standing.

“Thank you,” Mustang said, smiling at Scar. It was a different one than he’d used before, smaller and perhaps more genuine.

“I’m not doing it for you,” Scar said. The smile faded, and Mustang lowered his head. Scar walked away without sparing Mustang a glance.

He had taken two healers from Ishval; it was only fair to give one back .

*

It was usually only for an hour a day, and some days he couldn’t come at all, but all the same it became a pattern for Scar to visit Mustang at his table and read to him from the books on alkahestry. Scar had other work to do, liaising between his people and the military, and helping with construction, but during the noon hour, he came when he could, to teach his enemy to heal.

And Mustang began to improve, as the weeks went on, practicing on paper cuts and scratches, healing aches and easing old wounds . He was no great savior, no great healer yet, but the seeds were there, set to grow under the right conditions.

One day, three weeks after Scar had begun their daily meetings, he came late, as the sun was fading. Mustang had already begun to put away the table and stools, placing them against the wall. He was collecting his books and his cane as Scar approached, glancing up at his footfalls.

“Who’s there?” he said, fingers pressing together in an unconscious gesture. 

“It’s me,” Scar said, and watched as Mustang relaxed, lips curving slightly upward.

“I didn’t expect you to come today,” he said, kneeling down and placing the books carefully into a cloth bag. “I heard there was some trouble.”

“Soldiers,” Scar said with disgust. “Going where they’re not wanted.”

Mustang braced his hands on the ground, shaking his head. “If we’re to have a future at all, it must be a future together. The hatred has to die.”

Scar felt anger flare in his chest, breathed in the cool desert air, and let it go.

“Yes,” he said, “it must.”

He walked the rest of the way over to Mustang, who slung to bag his over his shoulder and got to his feet. He began to walk back towards his home, cane extended in front of him, and Scar fell in step at his side. Their progress was silent, until Mustang stopped and sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible,” he said. “To truly dispel the hatred. Seven years of bitter civil war breeds hatred and fear on both sides, and it is clearly still deeply felt by both our peoples.”

When Scar didn’t answer, he shook his head, starting forward again more quickly. Scar continued to follow closely, aware of Mustang’s increasing agitation. He imagined it must rankle him, to be confined to the lowly role he had now, when before he might have been the one commanding the soldiers who had caused trouble, directly responsible for their actions and their discipline. 

Mustang turned a corner sharply, letting the cane leave the ground and missing a stray piece of stone. As he stumbled, Scar reached out, grabbing his arm and preventing his fall. 

“I don’t need your help,” he said irritably, trying to pull his arm out of Scar’s grasp. 

“I don’t want to help you,” Scar replied, pulling Mustang closer. By some passing chance, when Mustang looked up, eyes blazing, his gaze locked with Scar’s.

“Let me go,” he said, voice flat and commanding. Scar held his arm, held his gaze as the seconds ticked by before finally releasing him.

Mustang took a deep breath, tightening his grip on his cane and slowly continuing onward. “I can do this,” he said, so quietly Scar almost missed it.

“You can,” Scar said. Mustang gave him an unreadable look, but didn’t reply. Finally, they reached his house, and Mustang hesitated, hand on the door. He turned back to Scar, tilting his head upward. 

“I apologize,” he said. “You were only trying to help.” He smiled wryly. “I know that the lieutenant has often noted that I’m a difficult patient, and it seems to be true in this case as well.”

“Difficult,” Scar agreed, “but not a patient.”

He was surprised when Mustang laughed quietly, and more surprised still when he reached out, hand searching the empty air before coming to rest of Scar’s forearm.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he said. “I admit, I’m not master cook, but I think I can make something edible, at least.”

Scar drew back abruptly, leaving Mustang’s hand hanging in the air. He stared blankly ahead, holding his hand there before closing it into a fist and letting it drop to his side.

“I should leave,” Scar said, turning to do just that.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Mustang called after him. Scar stopped, turning back to see Mustang still standing in the door, smiling.

“Yes,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, and wondered when it had become so easy.

*

Scar made sure to confine his visits to the daytime after that, not wishing to repeat the unsettling events of that night. But he couldn’t control the troubles inherent in rebuilding a people, and he was forced to come at the end of the day two weeks after the first time.

He walked again to the table as the sun was setting, a cut running up his arm. It wasn’t severe, just a scratch from some fallen debris. On another day, Mustang never would have known. But there was a woman there with him that day, an Amestrian. She glanced up at Scar’s approach, and looked at his arm.

“Maybe you can experiment more today, Roy,” she said. “Looks like your friend here has a nasty scratch. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Bright and early!” She shot Mustang a grin, and departed at a smart pace with a cocky wave. 

“Scar?” Roy asked.

“Who was that?” he asked. Many of the soldiers remained hostile, and he still remembered the encounter from a few weeks back. Perhaps this was related to that?

“A state alchemist. A good woman, and a good soldier. She didn’t join up until quite recently, but she’s extremely bright, and very invested in helping with the reconstruction.” Mustang smiled. “She’s actually from a town not too far from Resembool.”

“Was she helping you, then? With alkahestry?”

“Oh, no.” Mustang laughed, shaking his head. “She has only the barest academic interest. Her specialty is stone, which is why she’s stationed here. Now, what was this about a scratch?” 

“A small injury from the building site today. Nothing serious.” Scar had learned to cope with far greater pain than this, as a soldier and a fugitive. He didn’t need Mustang hovering over him.

“Would you mind if I tried to heal it? I haven’t been able to get much practical experience, especially with something larger.”

Scar wanted to refuse, but it was for the good of his people that Mustang knew what he was doing, and better that he practice on Scar than some innocent. “Fine .”

Mustang stood, gathering the books and folding the table and stools to set against the wall. He felt along it until his hand ran into a cane leaning against it. “Let’s go back to my place. I won’t be able to close it entirely even if it succeeds, and you’ll need to clean up.”

“All right.” Scar thought about offering his arm, and quickly rejecting the idea, remembering two weeks ago, and knowing that Mustang was likely to take offense at the implication that he could not manage on his own. And Scar had found that Mustang truly didn’t need help, familiar now with the route between his table and his living quarters, making his way slowly but confidently.

When they reached the small house, Mustang pulled out the key and unlocked the door, and Scar followed him inside. The front room was sparsely furnished, only a small table and chair and a few books on a shelf, and a little stove and some dishes off to the side. Mustang stood in the center of the room and laughed ruefully.

“I don’t often have guests,” he said. “Might as well go to the bedroom, it’s more comfortable.”

Scar followed him into the back room, where there was a low bed and a dresser. Mustang went confidently to the dresser, pulling out a roll of gauze bandages and a towel and setting them on the bed. He left the room then, and returned with a pitcher full of water.

“Sit,” he said. Scar sat on the bed, the only surface available, and Mustang sat next to him.

“How large is the cut?” he asked. “Which arm?”

“My right arm, up the entire length. Shallow but long.”

“Hmm,” Mustang said. “You probably should take your shirt off, then.” 

It made sense, of course, if Mustang was going to clean the cut as he clearly intended, but it felt uncomfortably intimate. Nevertheless, he pulled the shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor at his feet.

Mustang leaned forward, running his hands up Scar’s arm, and Scar shivered, much to his disgust.

“Sorry,” Mustang said. “My hands might be a bit cold.” Finishing his examination, he wet the towel and began dabbing it at the wound, then running his fingers gently over it again.

“That should do it,” he said, more to himself than Scar as he finished cleaning it. “Are you ready?” 

“Yes,” Scar said. “Just get on with it.” Mustang nodded, pressing his hands together, then placing them on the wound. Scar saw light flare, and felt a tingle, much like when Mei had healed him. As the light died away, Scar could see that the wound was much smaller than before. Mustang ran his fingers along it again, and flashed Scar a brilliant grin.

“It worked,” he said. “I knew it couldn’t be that hard.” There was an arrogant edge to the grin now, the kind of swagger that gave the man his reputation.

“I’ll bind it anyway, just in case it starts bleeding again,” Mustang said, picking up the gauze roll. He unrolled it, reaching out for Scar’s arm. He was clinical in his movements, but even as Mustang remained detached Scar felt more and more aware of him, his movements, the brush of his fingers against skin and the warmth of his body. 

“There, that should do it,” Mustang said, tying off the end. “You should change the dressing tomorrow, and have a doctor look at it.” He began stand up, but Scar grabbed his hand, pulling him back onto the bed.

“Scar?” Mustang said uncertainly. “What are you doing?”

Scar raised a hand to Mustang’s face, running his fingers over a cheekbone and cupping the back of his neck. He didn’t understand it, why he found this man of all men so compelling, why of all the people to seek out, Scar sought this man, again and again. All he knew was that he needed to know more.

“What are you doing?” Mustang repeated.

What was he doing? He didn’t know himself, why he had gone from hating this man, hating him and everyone like him, for what they had done to his people, for what they had done to him , to something he didn’t understand, and couldn’t possibly define. At some point, the hatred had died, and something else had grown in its place. At first Scar had thought it sympathy, or pity, for someone so far fallen. Then grudging admiration at how he remained undefeated. But when had it turned into this?

“I don’t know,” Scar said. Mustang raised one of his hands to Scar’s chest, trailing slowly across the exposed skin, and the other reached up to his face, resting on his cheek.

“Are you sure you want this?” he said, licking his lips. No, Scar wanted to say. And yes. It felt almost inevitable, a path that neither of them could truly resist, as Mustang hesitated, then leaned up and kissed him, clumsily at first, and then with more confidence as Scar did nothing to stop him. He opened his mouth against Scar’s, letting Scar press his tongue inside. When Scar broke the kiss, he felt Mustang’s breath hot against his lips.

Mustang opened his mouth again, like he was going to talk, but Scar didn’t want to hear him talk now, didn’t want to be reminded of the truth of who this man was. He kissed him again, shoving up his shirt and running his hands over Mustang’s thin chest. Scar frowned; he shouldn’t be this thin, not as a former solider. He shoved that thought away for another time as Mustang lifted his arms, letting Scar push the shirt over his head. 

In the time they’d been there, the moon had risen, and the light came through the window, painting Mustang’s skin a bright white, heightening the contrast with his dark hair. Scar had heard of the reputation the Flame Alchemist had garnered, as a womanizer and a charmer, and he could see why. He cut a striking figure, shirtless and disheveled, lips dark from kissing.

He smirked at Scar, leaning back onto the bed and grabbing Scar’s arm to pull him down with him. As Scar settled over him, he ran his hands down Scar’s back, fingers digging into the muscle. Scar ducked his head down to kiss Mustang again, savoring the muffled groan he made as he ground their hips together.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” Mustang said, panting, “but I guess I was wrong.” Mustang reached up to bury his fingers in Scar’s hair, kissing him again. It went on for countless minutes, hot breath and warm skin, fingers digging in and holding, pulling Scar ever closer. His pants were loose, but as his hips ground against Mustang’s again, they began to feel unnecessarily constraining. 

He sat back, looking down at Mustang, with his flushed skin and half-lidded eyes. “Why’re you stopping?” he said, slightly breathless.

Scar didn’t answer, and instead began to work on Mustang’s belt. Mustang hissed as Scar brushed against him, and propped himself up onto his elbows. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Scar growled at his dubious tone, and made quick work of the belt, followed by the pants.

“Do you?” he said.

Mustang grinned at him. “Ah, so you’ve heard of my reputation?” He let his arms drop and his head fall back on the pillow. “Entirely false, you’re right. But just because it’s been a while since I’ve done this, doesn’t mean I don’t remember how.”

Scar threw his own pants on the floor, and settled back over Mustang, who reached up to place a hand on his shoulder. He’d lost the playful expression, face gone grave.

“I hope you don’t regret this in the morning,” Mustang said. His hand moved upwards, tracing muscle and bone to rest over Scar’s cheek. Scar licked his lips and kissed Mustang again, and felt him press up against him, fingers tightening in his hair. He pulled back again, and looked down at Mustang, so small and vulnerable and still so strong.

“I already regret it,” Scar said, his own fingers threading through Mustang’s hair, tugging his head closer.

“Yeah,” Mustang said, smiling sadly. “Me too .”

*

Scar didn’t know why he hadn’t left yet. He had intended to leave the second he was finished, the second he’d satisfied this perverse want, this need. And yet he lay here still, next to the man who had been his enemy, naked in his bed. Mustang shifted slightly, hair brushing against Scar’s arm as he turned onto his back.

“I’m leaving, you know,” he said. 

“What?”

“I’m going to Xing. I can’t learn alkahestry properly, not without a master. I’ve already written to Miss Chang, and she’s expecting me, and said her own teacher is willing to train me.”

Scar closed his eyes, blocking out the moonlight. Mustang shifted again, closer this time, his hand coming to rest lightly against Scar’s chest.

“When will you return?” Scar asked.

“I don’t know. It could be months,” Mustang said. He paused. “It could be years.”

“You must do whatever you have to, to atone,” Scar said. 

“I will,” Mustang said, resolve firm in every line of his body. “I will never, ever forget .” 

_I will never forgive you._

Scar looked up Mustang, remembering what he’d said, of the last Ishvalan he killed. Forgiveness was impossible. Forgetting was unthinkable . The screams of his people, of his brother, now intertwined with the faces of the doctors, of their daughter. Pain and blood and revenge was all he had seen for so long, and even as he’d vowed to leave it behind, it was still so hard to forget.

“Stay with me until morning,” Mustang said. “I’m leaving then. That was what I was talking about, with the state alchemist.”

He’d need an escort through the desert, and Scar almost considered volunteering to go with. But he was needed here. 

“I will,” Scar said. He was needed here, but he could stay until morning.

_We are alike._


End file.
